THE LUNAR REPORT - "DEAN SMITH" July 26, 2010

Dean Smith, former basketball coach at the University of North Carolina, said in a news conference one time after losing a pretty important college basketball game, “There are a billion people in China who don’t even know we played tonight.” I got his point. It was a good one. But I don’t much care for the way he downplayed the importance of Carolina Basketball. More specifically, Dean Smith Carolina Basketball.

Coach Smith’s health is not so good these days. I thought it was time that I share a very special Lunar Report that I did just for Facebook last fall. I’ve done some editing of the original, but the main point remains. I hope you enjoy it.

And I’d like Coach Smith to see it. If any of you know how to forward it to him, I hope you will.

FROM NOVEMBER 10, 2009:

Last night was the season opener for the University of North Carolina basketball team. It was the 44th opening night since I began to follow the team in 1965. They played a team from Florida. I know the score of the game, but it really doesn’t matter. Not at all.

I’m not crying hard times. I am proud of where I came from. Besides, with the help of others and more, the relatively rotten childhood that was mine was totally rectified by those who created such a living nightmare. I blame no one. In fact, I am grateful that all involved eventually came around. There is much love in our family. It’s been that way for a long time. That love now more than makes up for the childhood misery then.

And I survived. With help. From Jesus. The Beatles. And Dean Smith.

As a young child, I would often, during the times that scared me most, imagine Jesus sitting between my sister and me. He had his left hand gently resting on my right knee. His right hand was on my sister’s left knee. That was unbelievably calming. Jesus handled my immediate fears.

Periods of time would pass. I sort of became accustomed to measuring those periods of time by the first radio airing of the next Beatles’ hit. They seemed to put out the most incredible tunes at just the right times. But those periods of time between hits were dreadfully long. For me anyway.

But the rock – the tangible and steady influence, the thing I could always count on, year in and year out, for months and longer at a time – was Dean Smith and Carolina basketball.

I was a rather bored student. I really had difficulty focusing on seemingly endless talking by coaches who had to teach science and by real teachers who seemed destined to impress us with their superior knowledge of history. So, I drifted. Many times. I would sit at my desk, book open, paper and pen at the ready. Then the play-by-play would begin. Would come from out of nowhere. And each time, the radio announcer in my head would describe how Coach Smith was counting on David Moon, Smith’s go-to guy. I must have single-handedly won dozens of ACC and National Championships for Carolina and Dean Smith while in 8th grade science class. But the classroom driftings were fun, unintentional escapes. I never feared my science teacher. He just bored me. And I could win championships in science class in September or May. It didn’t need to be basketball season for me to be Dean’s go-to guy.

Being home at night, every night, all year long – that I feared. So many nights. So many times. All I wanted to do was escape that damned house. Maybe I was just a young guy who feared a home without Ozzie, Harriet, David and Rick. Or maybe it was real. It seemed real.

Each year, as each new season began, the fear of being home at night was clearly there. Still as strong as ever. But when the season began, I had somewhere else to be. I had a radio. I had my own room –a shrine to Carolina basketball. So many nights, I would turn to the radio and tune in WPTF or WBT, radio stations in Raleigh and Charlotte. After 6pm each day, those stations boosted power north and south, so mostly I could hear their broadcasts in Jacksonville, and mostly one or the other would broadcast Carolina basketball games. “Dean, take me where I need to be.” I would sit in my room, listening, through the crackling of long distance radio reception, to my team do what they did best. And they always did their best so well. Dean made them. He was that kind of coach – and man.

Dean and his winning teams were where I belonged. He knew exactly how to behave. He knew exactly what to say. He was Ozzie AND Harriet. His players reacted to him. They were winners because Dean was a winner. A child who lives with what I lived with, feels like such a loser so much of the time. High self esteem to a child like me was sort of fairy tale. But I was a part of Dean’s teams. I was a winner through that man. When I would wear my UNC jacket to school, people – teachers and kids – would say, “Unc?” (as in “uncle”) They were maybe making fun. But I felt such pride those times. During those years, Dean and his team were my family – a solid, proud and successful bunch.

Today is November 10. Two days ago, November 8, was the 64th anniversary of my brother’s birth. It was also the 16th anniversary of my Dad’s death. My brother is 9 years older than me. He and I had few opportunities to bond in the early years. Dean gave my brother and me a bond. It seems appropriate that the season opener was just one day past the eighth of November.

Other than my brother’s bond and the gifts of hope and dreams he gave a scared, stupid little kid, the most important thing, by far, Dean Smith and Carolina basketball gave me was my Dad. My Dad and I rarely shared time together when I was a young child. That’s just the way it was. One of my first and best recollections of bonding with my Dad was in 1969, I think. Growing up in Jacksonville, Florida, we almost never got to watch Carolina play. There was no cable, no ESPN back then. I did get to see a great deal of Pete Maravich on television. That was special. But it wasn’t Dean. The nearest television market we could catch a Carolina game was Charleston. One Friday night, after Carolina had won the ACC Tournament semi-final game, my Dad came home and told my Mom to pack bags. We were going to Charleston to check into a motel and watch Carolina and Charlie Scott play Duke in the ACC Championship final on television. I don’t know that I have ever been as impressed with my Dad and his control of a situation as I was that night. And I was beside myself with childhood excitement. My two families were actually going to meet.

My Mom, sister, Dad and I made it to Charleston the next day. My brother was married and on his own and did not make the trip. But the four of us, a happy and satisfied and content family, did our own walking tour of that beautiful historic city. Through old graveyards. Past great old mansions facing the Battery. To a wonderful bakery whose cupcakes I can still smell and taste. That night, after a Charleston day I will never forget, we watched the game on television. Charlie Scott hit a 12-foot floater as time ran out to beat Dook and win the Championship. It was the exact same shot I made dozens of times in science class. Unbelievable. This was special. A few years later, my Dad and I made a pact to always go to Charleston to watch the ACC Tournament. For the most part, we kept that pact - for a number of years. I was married with a 3 year old the last time we were in Charleston for the tourney. Man. Thanks Dad. Thanks Dean.

My Dad has left this earth and Dean has left the basketball court. But Dean started something for me. He took me places I could never have gone without him. And he seemed to, in my mind anyway, insist that my Dad come along for the ride. For a short time anyway.

So, to my Carolina friends – As a kid, I cared a great deal. But for the longest time, I haven’t really given a damn whether we win or lose. All I ever really want is for the next season to begin. It has.

Visit TheLunarReport.comfor the weekly bonus blog, “More Lunacy.” There’s more on Coach Smith in this week’s Lunacy, called “Panic.”